


visitors

by justjoy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s01e13 Savoureux, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Is there such a thing as angsty fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 00:25:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/justjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is one thing that Will Graham has learned, it is that one's mind cannot always be trusted. </p>
<p>He isn't quite sure what to make of the people around him, though.</p>
            </blockquote>





	visitors

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the end of the season finale, _Savoureux_ , if you haven't seen it yet.
> 
> Also posted on my [Tumblr](http://presumenothing.tumblr.com/post/53921224454/visitors), where you should join me so we can all try to survive this hiatus together.

**i.**

Will drifts.

His world is a sea of light and sound and colour that fractures, shatters, breaks a thousand million times over until it finally coalesces into the cold solid metal bars of his cell. His reality.

 

 

 

**ii.**

It arrives two weeks later.

Will does not react as the guard on duty slides the envelope in through the tray, only gets up to study it fifteen minutes and four seconds after his footsteps have faded into the distance.

Something slides inside the envelope as he picks it up and holds it to the light, smaller rectangle silhouetted on the cream paper. 8R in A4 by his guess, an awkward fit, not quite right.

Will can empathise with that.

The corners of the matte photo are rounded, and he knows all too well why. He has nothing but time now, every second of every minute of every day ticking by, time enough to think of three ways he could use a sharp edge to help him escape, and at least two more methods to seriously injure someone at the very least. But they should have known better than to believe that he would do anything of the sort with this photo.

He looks and looks and _looks_ at it, trying to memorise every shape, every tone, lest any of it fades into the slowly clearing fog of his mind.

His dogs asleep, curled together in a confused tangle of fur, light from the fireplace giving the whole scene a cheery glow. She is reflected in the glass of a painting above the fireplace, too much of her face hidden by the camera for him to even guess at her expression.

Three words are written on the back, elegant feminine loops in black ink: _They miss you._

It is only then that Will realises, with the bitter jolt of not-quite-surprise that he has come to be intimately familiar with in the recent days, that he doesn't even know what Alana Bloom's handwriting looks like.

 

 

The next day, Will asks for pen and paper.

He brings himself to write three days after, seven words that feel like they are carved indelibly into his skin, except that he doesn't think that a felt-tip pen should cause this much pain.

_You can take them to the pound._

Will waits.

There is no answer.

 

 

 

**iii.**

He dreams of Abigail Hobbs once, and only once.

They are in the kitchen, in Minnesota, except that it's different. Sunlight streams in through the windows, patterns of light that dance across the hardwood counters, and Will thinks that this must have been what it was like, before.

There is no scarf around her neck, and he knows without thinking that these are the same clothes that she had been wearing on that day, except he hasn't ever seen them untarnished by blood and the darkness that has stained both of their lives.

He has never seen the expression on her face before, either. Abigail looks - the word eludes him for a moment, but he finds it, grabs it and holds on tight - she looks _peaceful_ , and as they sit there Will begins to feel the same peace as well. It is not unpleasant, but neither is it entirely pleasant.

It is simply there.

_Choose your words wisely,_ comes his own voice from somewhere far away, and he does. They have all the time in the world here, after all - because there is no time here, Will thinks, perfectly aware that his logic only makes sense because this is a dream, his dream.

Time has no place here, not unless he wants it to.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, and he can feel time starting to tick again, loud echoes in his mind. It does not drown out Abigail's response.

She reaches over and covers his hand with her own, the smooth coolness a contrast to the polished warmth of the counter beneath. "I know."

He stands unmoving for a long time after she fades completely from sight, her last words echoing as the sun sets.

_Goodbye, Will_.

 

 

 

**iv.**

"I have some of your things from Evidence. Your glasses, watch, a couple of books," says Beverly Katz six weeks later. She shifts minutely in the visitor's chair, and Will wonders almost absently if it is because the chair is indeed as stiff and uncomfortable as it looks, or just because of him. "I'd pass them to you, but I don't know if they'd allow me to."

Their gazes do not meet, although Will isn't quite sure whose fault that is.

"It's okay, I don't need them," he says when the silence stretches out to a rather uncomfortable length - for her, not him. Will has gained an odd appreciation for his situation, and silence is certainly one of its better aspects.

Beverly stares down at her hands, calloused in the odd spot from years of meticulous labwork and marksman practice. "Price and Zeller, they think that I'm crazy, going over the same ground again and again. But I can't help thinking that there's some evidence that we haven't found, something that we missed before."

He is still trying to find the words to answer when she makes an aborted movement, like she wants to lean forward but doesn't quite trust herself to, and that alone is enough to silence him.

"No, listen to me, Will." She exhales softly, looks into his eyes. "I'm not saying that you didn't do all this, or that you did. Honestly, I don't know what to believe about you. I'm just trying to find the truth. That's all."

He feels tired all of a sudden, too tired to even muster anything beyond a bitter smile at _the truth_.

"Thank you, Beverly," he says quietly, sincerely. She is merely doing her job, after all.

They all are.

 

 

"Oh, and one more thing." Beverly shoulders her bag and stands. "Doctor Bloom asked me to tell you she says no. She said you'd understand."

 

 

 

**v.  
**

Jack Crawford does not visit.

Will doesn't expect him to.

 

 

 

**vi.**

Will wakes from a light doze to see her standing in the corridor.

He does not move, does not say anything, merely looks at her from where he is sitting on the bed, back against the wall. Lets her make the first move.

"Good sleep?" Alana finally asks.

"More or less." Will shrugs. He's certainly had far worse, after all.

She does not answer, and he studies her face, avoids her eyes.

"You look like you could use some rest yourself, Doctor Bloom," he adds in a perfectly neutral tone.

"Something happened," she answers, the words formal and stilted, the sound of her control straining almost audible to his ears. "And if you call me Doctor Bloom one more time, Will Graham, I will reach right through those bars and slap you senseless, protocols be damned."

Will blinks. And blinks again, not quite sure if he heard that right.

Judging from the half-mortified look on Alana Bloom's face, he has.

"I'd offer you a seat, but I seem to be on the wrong side of these bars," he says lamely, his tolerance for silence apparently outweighed by the need to defuse the honestly awkward situation.

Her laughter, when it comes, surprises him - but he is more than glad to hear it, because if she is laughing then he can pretend for a while longer that he doesn't see the very real shadows beneath her eyes, doesn't notice the way that her hair is just a little less neat than it was before, doesn't have to acknowledge the fact that he knows the reason why.

"I'm sorry," she says, when she eventually calms down. "Can we start over?"

Will nods before he quite realises what he is doing.

Alana takes a deep breath, and smiles. "Hello, Will."

And despite everything, Will can feel himself smiling back, just a little - he has missed this so,  _so_ much.

"Hello, Alana."

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing for this fandom.
> 
> Also, I am painfully aware that this is way more optimistic than canon is likely to be, but I reserve my right to have fluff when I need it.


End file.
